Many readers have asked for another installment of the Golf Cart Girl saga of young Courtney, a co-worker of mine years ago at a Southern New Jersey golf course. I worked in the cart barn, she was the beverage/snack girl riding the course and selling beverages. By accident I stumbled upon her ingenious way of earning a college scholarship, and used that knowledge to my own advantage. While it is not necessary to ready installments 1 and 2 before this one, it is recommended.
*
Over the years I've seen shows on television like "Bowling for Dollars" and heard radio programs like "Dialing for Dollars," but Courtney Connors bettered each of those shows with her version of "Blowing for Dollars."
Courtney was every man's dream. Just 19, she was young, seemingly innocent and extremely pretty. But as I had observed first hand, she was not the wholesome, innocent girl she pretended to be. Over the summer I had unexpectedly stumbled into the girl giving Mr. Gamble, a local real estate executive, a savory blow job in his shiny black Mercedes late one afternoon after a round of golf.
The girl, who tantalized visitors to the Stone Harbor Golf Club by day, driving around in short-shorts on her golf cart, smiling while handing out beverages and snacks for tips, was a vixen after work. I caught her in the compromising act with Mr. Gamble by accident, but it wasn't a one-time thing as I spied on her several times repeating the nasty act with him in the back employee and overflow parking lot at the club.
Then, over the next month, I saw her fellate Mr. Gamble's business partner, Mr. Mack, and fuck him as well...on a green no less. I also spied on her blowing two business associates of the real estate men as payment for what I found out later was for a lost golf bet.
Why? Well, as it turns out, the girl was blowing for dollars like a cheap, common whore. Well, maybe not a cheap whore, but an expensive call girl. The two men had set her up with a college fund and spending money in return for her nocturnal activities, paying the formerly innocent girl for her seductive services.
I knew, because not only had I seen the girl give a number of stellar blow jobs and on one occasion saw her fucking one of the men on a green, but I also had several digital photos of the activities. Photos, if in the wrong hands, would cause all kinds of problems and pain.
How it started I didn't know. But what I did know was Courtney Connors had a talented mouth, one that was very busy after work hours around the club.
So what's a virgin guy to do? What would you do?
Courtney was five feet four inches tall, with pretty blue eyes that she'd bat whenever she saw the opportunity to flirt. And that smile, that wide, pretty smile, brought a hard-on to me as I knew she used those lips to more than smile. I'd seen her use those pretty lips, which she loved to coat with a light red lipstick, to wrap around Mr. Gamble long, thin cock and Mr. Mack's thick meaty dick. I'd watched her suck Mr. Mack's cock after he'd fucked her, cleaning off his and her juices so, as Mr. Mack said, "My wife won't know I'd fucked someone." Oh, he used a condom on the girl, but that fact didn't stop her from sucking after fucking.
I knew all about those luscious lips, those kissable lips. I thought of them at night in bed when I'd jerk off, sometimes looking at the grainy photos and sometimes just sparked by my imagination. I wondered what those lips would feel like around my cock.
What was really odd is that her boyfriend hadn't bedded her, nor had she even had the slightest reputation of putting out for other guys she'd dated in the past in high school. This was a girl with not a speck of rumor about her reputation of being as pure as newly fallen snow. No, to everyone who knew her, Courtney was the picture of perfection in a girl.
Of course I knew better. I had first hand knowledge about what she had been doing.
I knew her dark side. I knew willingly sucked cock, older guys' cocks. She sucked them after rounds of golf, and as I learned she'd blow the real estate man who won the golf bet. The loser, well, he had to wait a week to attempt to get her as a prize.
My spying eyes learned a lot about Courtney, how she'd "earned" her scholarship to Villanova, how she'd snuck off with the real estate men at the snap of a finger. How her mouth was used to entice clients when necessary. Yet how she refused to put out a little for her boyfriend.
Since finding out Courtney was a slut I didn't try to treat her any different, but I guess I did. I know I made suggestive comments a couple times, which at first was taken by the girl as innocent flirting. But after a while she'd get terse with her responses to my borderline nasty comments. As the summer when on she would throw an insult or two into conversations with me.
It pissed me off, given how I knew she was a girl who needed kneepads, but every time I'd get mad at the girl she'd bump into me, smile, and I'd forget about her taunts and insults.
The blue-eyed, long-legged girl somehow managed to keep her affair(s) with the men secret. Nobody else at the club had an inkling, and neither did the men's wives, a fact I constantly remembered. Management would surely fire her, but what havoc would occur if they found out about their husband's nocturnal activities? It would be ugly, undoubtedly, especially if Mrs. Gamble found out. That woman was a class A bitch with a capital B.
Mrs. Gamble treated everyone on the club staff like dirt, and had actually cost two employees their jobs when she complained about something or another they did. She would boss people around as if she were management, not a customer. Oh, the customer might be always right, but that didn't mean she could act like a playground bully.
Over the last several months I had a couple run-ins with her, as she once chastised me for riding a cart too fast back to the cart barn while on another she dressed me down for not showing her proper "respect" in front of a friend. That brought a tongue-lashing and reprimand from my boss, one, when the woman was out of ear shot, was rescinded. No, the bitchy Mrs. Gamble had no friends around the club.
At least that's what I thought.
Who says lightening doesn't strike twice at the same place? I can tell you first hand it does, as on one Wednesday night after ladies day at the club was clearing out I saw a freshly showered and made-up Mrs. Gamble sneaking away from the women's locker room toward the pro shop. I say sneaking, because she left the women's locker room and looked all over as if to ensure she was not being watched.
That look said something was up, and from my seat in the cart barn I happened to see her wearing a cute little white tennis outfit. Her hair was perfect, and her long, tanned legs were astounding for an 18-year-old let along a 40ish woman. The top accentuated her breasts and the short white skirt was, well, wonderful to look at as it flared about as she walked. The outfit, though, struck me as odd because she had played golf during the day and the tennis courts were closed.
Watching as she quickly strode toward the pro shop, I had to wonder what was up. The head pro had sent the assistants home a half hour before and the place was empty. Dusk was nearing, but I could track her walking toward the shop. Maybe she had forgotten something on the course, but that normally meant heading to the lost and found at the cart barn. I snuck around the side and watched as she neared the pro shop, only to bypass the front door.
That door had a "closed" sign in sight, but Mrs. Gamble didn't mind. She went around the side and disappeared from sight. I had to find out what was going on, because there was nothing behind the pro shop other than the ninth green. The parking lots were in the opposite direction, and no other club facilities were over there.
Like an undercover operative in the movies I snuck toward the shop, taking a circuitous route in an effort to stay well away from the woman.
I arrived near the back of the pro shop and didn't see any trace of the woman. I thought that was a shame, because she looked very cute for a 40-something woman. I stood behind the ninth green and looked to and fro to no avail, she had disappeared. Giving up my quest, I started back toward the cart barn but was startled to a stop when I passed the pro shop. I could swear I heard voices inside, something I thought impossible as the shop had closed an hour before.
Carefully I walked closer to the shop, deciding the side window would be the safest spot to spy inside.
Lightning, it seems, can strike twice. Inside the pro shop I saw Mrs. Gamble in a lover's embrace with the head pro. The two were swapping spit, with Mrs. Gamble holding both of her arms around his neck while his hands were fondling the woman's ass over her short tennis skirt.
The pro mentioned something about her outfit being "so damned hot" before locking lips again with the married woman.
The two made out like teenagers over the next several minutes before I heard Mrs. Gamble almost beg the man to bang her. "Oh Roger, I need you, I need you now," said the breathless woman.
They broke their embrace and I saw the man unzip his pants. He reached inside and pulled out a long, hard cock as the woman merely stared at him as if she was in a trance. I could swear she licked her luscious lips.
